Pony: playing the comb
9.8.2005
I have this memory of often being the last kid to get picked up after school. Of taking some wax paper from my lunch bag and wrapping it around a comb and humming songs.
It seemed like the most despairing, hobo-like thing I could do in that moment, standing in my navy tunic, my hair half-out of my ponytail, my bag stuffed with everything in my locker, the wind blowing in the desolate driveway as I waited for my ride.
Last night, stress seemed so large I was awake at 5:30, too fatigued to get up, too preocuppied to sleep. In the middle of the night, everything seems as disproportionately desolate as it did as a kid.
If this happens again, I am taking out my comb.
